e by theatrical and operatic
performers, such as Sara Bernhardt, Emma Abbott, Murray and Murphy,
Adele Patti, George C. Miln, Helena Modjeska, Fanny Davenport, and
Denman Thompson.

Of course, therefore, our public has come to be able to appreciate with
a nicer discrimination and a finer zest the intellectual _morceaux_ and
the refined tidbits which Mr. Forepaugh's unparalleled aggregation
offers. This was apparent in the vast numbers and in the unbridled
enthusiasm of our best citizens gathered upon the housetops and at the
street-corners along the line of the circus procession. So magnificent
a display of silks, satins, and diamonds has seldom been seen: it truly
seemed as if the fashion and wealth of our city were trying to vie with
the splendors of the glittering circus pageant. In honor of the event,
many of the stores, public buildings, and private dwellings displayed
banners, mottoes, and congratulatory garlands. From the balcony of the
palatial edifice occupied by one of our leading literary clubs was
suspended a large banner of pink silk, upon which appeared the word
"Welcome" in white; while beneath, upon a scroll, was an appropriate
couplet from one of Robert Browning's poems.

When we asked one of the members of this club why the club made such a
fuss over the circus, he looked very much astonished; and he answered,
"Well, why not? Old Forepaugh is worth over a million dollars, and he
always sends us complimentaries whenever he comes to town!"

We asked this same gentleman if he had read the new edition of Sappho's
poems. We had a good deal of confidence in his literary judgment and
taste, because he is our leading linseed-oil dealer; and no man in the
West is possessed of more enterprise and sand than he.

"My daughter brought home a copy of the book Saturday," said he, "and I
looked through it yesterday. Sappho may suit some cranks; but as for
me, give me Ella Wheeler or Will Carleton. I love good poetry: I 've
got the finest-bound copy of Shakespeare in Illinois, and my edition of
Coleridge will knock the socks off any book in the country. My wife
has painted all the Doray illustrations of the Ancient Marine, and I
would n't swap that book for the costliest Mysonyay in all Paris!

"I can't see where the poetry comes in," he went on to say. "So far as
I can make out, this man Sapolio--I mean Sappho--never did any
sustained or consecutive work. His poems read to me a good deal like a
diary.